“None of the other women have been found.”
“But Brandi’s body turned up in November 2014. Her grave was shallow, and animals had been at the corpse. She was badly decomposed. But the sheriff’s department had already made the link between Franklin and the six missing women, and they had enough supporting evidence to establish probable cause and obtain a search warrant. They found the hairs in his trunk and that was the critical piece of evidence that convicted him.” Anger surged in Lance’s chest. The biggest piece of evidence in the case had been mishandled.
Morgan turned a page in the file. “The county would have the DNA profiles of those other five women on file.”
Lance added, “But none of their hairs were found in Franklin’s trunk. If Brandi’s hair was disallowed, is there enough additional evidence to bring a new trial?”
“I doubt it.” Morgan closed the file and rested her hand on it. “Probable cause isn’t even close to the standard applied by the court to establish beyond a reasonable doubt. If an appeal is granted, Franklin could walk.”
“And possibly kill again.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Jittery from the vat of coffee she’d consumed at the sheriff’s station, Morgan climbed out of the Jeep in front of Sharp Investigations. She stood on the sidewalk, hoisted her tote higher on her shoulder, and glanced at the front door. A package sat on the porch.
Lance locked the Jeep and caught up with her. “Sharp hasn’t called. I guess he’s still tied up with Stella.”
They turned up the walk. Their shadows fell over the box. Next to it, a tiny red light blinked. Morgan hesitated. Had that dot been a trick of the sunlight? It blinked again.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and she reached for Lance’s forearm. “What’s that red light next to the package?”
Lance stopped. Under her hand, his muscles tensed. “It looks like an infrared light.”
And it was blinking faster.
The package emitted a faint beep and then a second.
“Get down!”
She barely heard the third beep. Before she could process what was happening, Lance hooked an arm around Morgan’s waist and tackled her to the lawn. She went down hard in a full sprawl. Her chin bounced off the grass. The impact jarred her head and knocked the wind from her lungs. Lance crawled on top of her and wrapped his arms around his head.
A boom sounded. Bits of debris showered them. A chunk of something hard nicked her calf. The slice of pain brought her brain back into focus.
A bomb.
Morgan gasped. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her face was pressed into the grass, and Lance’s weight on her back prevented her from inflating her lungs. Lance had covered her body with his own and used his arms to protect their heads.
The air went quiet, and she tapped his arm. “Are you OK?”
“I think so.” His weight shifted slightly. “You?”
“I can’t breathe.”
He slid off until he was lying on the grass next to her, one arm still protectively over her back. “Are you all right?”
Rolling over, she drew in a deep breath. All of her limbs moved. No major pain. “Yes.” Morgan spotted blood dripping down his arm. “You’re bleeding.”
But he ignored it. He was scanning the front yard and the street. “I think that infrared beam was the detonator, but let’s find cover just in case there’s a second package.”
He rose into a crouch, tugged her to her feet, and pushed her back toward the Jeep. Without breaking stride, she grabbed her tote bag from the grass where it had fallen. One of her shoes had come off. She left it and ran awkwardly with Lance in one heel and one bare foot.
Once inside the vehicle, Lance started the engine and moved the Jeep down the street, his head swiveling as he looked for threats.
While he drove, Morgan called 911, then looked back at the duplex. A hole gaped in the front porch and scorch marks colored the siding next to the door. Most of the debris that littered the front walk and lawn appeared to have come from the porch railing and the bomb packaging. The front window that looked into Sharp’s office was broken.
She’d expected more damage, but the explosion seemed to have been limited to a six-foot radius centered around where the bomb had been placed.
She turned back to Lance and his bleeding arm. “Let me see.”
“It doesn’t hurt.”
“Yet.” She found the source of the bleeding immediately: an inch-long gash in his biceps. “This might need stitches.”
Lance didn’t seem concerned.
Sirens signaled the approach of the first responders. The Scarlet Falls Police Station was only a few blocks away. Two police cars roared around the corner.
“Wait here.” Lance stepped out of the Jeep and waved them down. They parked in the middle of the street, their lights swirling. Two officers emerged from the squad cars. She recognized Officer Carl Ripton. Lance conferred with his former coworker. Morgan changed into the flats she kept in her tote bag. Then she joined Lance in the street as the officers moved away.
Lance steered her back toward their vehicle. “They want us to wait here. The SFPD is going to evacuate the block and sit tight until the county bomb squad gets here to clear the scene.”
Carl blocked one end of the street with his vehicle. The second officer drove to the other end of the street and did the same. Then the two cops left their vehicles and ran toward the buildings on either side of the office.
The thought that there could be additional bombs around the property made Morgan feel ill. The blood dripping from Lance’s fingers onto the sidewalk wasn’t helping. She wasn’t normally squeamish. The explosion had left her shaky. Plus, little aches were blooming where her chin, knees, and hands had hit the ground. She opened the hatch and rummaged in the back of the Jeep for two bottles of water and the first aid kit. Lance stocked his vehicle the way she stocked her tote bag.
She opened three gauze pads and held them against Lance’s cut. The blood soaked through them in seconds. She’d need twenty stacked together. She needed something more absorbent. The ACE bandage in the kit wasn’t sterile. Unzipping her tote, she found a Maxi Pad, opened the package, and pressed it against his wound.
Lance looked down and lifted one brow.
Morgan shrugged. “It’s clean and absorbent.” She wrapped the ACE bandage around his arm to hold the pad in place. “Would you rather go to the ER?”
“Nope. This is fine.” Lance took his phone from his pocket. “I need to call Sharp.”
With Lance’s wound addressed, Morgan cleaned the scratch on her calf and covered it with a Band-Aid. Sirens wailed as more officers arrived. In ten minutes, they were joined by two fire trucks, an ambulance, and a paramedic unit. Morgan flagged down a paramedic, who opened his kit on the hood of the Jeep.
He unwrapped the makeshift bandage and paused for just a second before nodding at Morgan. “Resourceful.”
He cleaned the wound. “This could probably use a couple of stitches. I’ll close it with butterfly bandages, but if it doesn’t stop bleeding, you should go to the emergency room. Have you had a tetanus booster recently?”
“I’m sure I have,” Lance said.
The paramedic bandaged the wound, then turned to Morgan. “How about you?”
“I’m fine.” Because Lance had played human shield.
The paramedic cleaned up his supplies and took his kit back to his vehicle.
Morgan turned and leaned against the Jeep next to Lance’s good arm. “Thank you for throwing yourself on top of me.”
“Anytime.”
“Is Sharp still with Stella?” With the excitement fading, the chill wrapped around her, and she shivered.
“I assume so. He didn’t answer his phone. I left him a message.” Lance scrolled through apps on his screen. “I can access the security camera feed on my phone. The cameras should have caught our bomber.”
“Let’s hope.” But that seemed too easy for Morgan. They
weren’t usually that lucky.
“Here he is.” Lance angled the phone so she could see the screen.
A man in jeans and a hoodie ran up to the front porch, set down the package, and retreated.
“Damn. He kept his face turned away from the camera,” Lance said.
“He knows it’s there.” Morgan pointed at the screen. “Show the feed from camera two. It covers the street.”
Lance switched camera feeds. “He parked outside the camera’s view.”
“Go back to number one and run it again.” Morgan watched the man leave the box. She touched the screen to freeze the video. “We can approximate his height and body type.”
“He looks fairly average.”
“Average can rule people out.”
“True.”
She squinted at the image. “Do you see any logos on his clothes?”
Lance zoomed in and moved the image around on the screen. “He’s wearing Timberland boots.”
“He’s also wearing leather gloves.” Morgan zeroed in on a small strip of skin between the hoodie sleeve and the glove. “Zoom in here. He’s Caucasian.”
“We were bombed by an average-size white guy in Timberland boots.”
“Not much of a description.” But better than none at all, she thought.
“Uh-oh. Here comes the press.” Lance sighed.
Morgan lifted her head. Two news vans turned the corner and stopped just shy of the command center established by the SFPD and fire department. Before the crews could exit those two vans, another pulled up.
“On the bright side, our bomb has drawn the press away from Mr. and Mrs. Cruz’s house.” Lance’s eyes narrowed until he looked almost wolfish.
“There is that.” Morgan watched the crews unload from the vans. “But how did they get here so quickly? Albany is an hour away.”
“Maybe they got a tip, like that reporter who randomly showed up at Olivia’s house yesterday while I was canvassing the neighborhood.”
A reporter spotted them. But Morgan and Lance were behind the command center barrier. Morgan was grateful the press couldn’t get to them. Reporters lined up to give sound bites with the police activity as a dramatic backdrop.
“Are you going to talk to them?” Lance asked.
“No. I’m going to ignore them.” With a normal case, Morgan gave interviews to manipulate public opinion in favor of her clients, but there was no need for her to indulge the media today.
“Good. I hate to see them sensationalizing Olivia’s disappearance and hounding her family for ratings.”
Hours passed as the bomb squad set up and then cleared the office and surrounding buildings. As soon as the area was proclaimed safe, the ambulance, fire engines, and half the police vehicles drove away. Neighbors were permitted into their homes and businesses.
The fire chief approached Lance and Morgan. He was holding a small silver object in his gloved hand. “The building is clear. There was only the one device.”
“What’s that?” Morgan pointed to his hand.
“An infrared motion sensor. It seems your package contained a small pipe bomb with a mechanical switch triggered by the IR sensor. In theory, it’s smart. There’s no obvious trip wire, and the assailant can be far away from the scene when the bomb goes off. But you got lucky. The sensor picked up your movement while you were still a good distance from the bomb. If you two had been closer when it went off, you would have gotten faces full of shrapnel.”
Considering a bomb had detonated and they had suffered only minor injuries, Morgan felt very lucky indeed. “I would have expected a larger explosion from a pipe bomb.”
“We’ll know more when we’ve fully investigated, but I suspect the bomber didn’t use enough explosive.” The fire chief shrugged. “Whether that was intentional or not is the question.”
“We have the security camera feed showing the bomber in action.” Lance lifted his phone. “Unfortunately, you can’t see his face or vehicle, but I’ll email it to you.”
“The arson investigator and bomb squad are still working the scene. I’ll let you know when we have answers.”
“Can we go inside?” Morgan asked.
The fire chief looked back at the duplex. “The explosion was limited in scope. There’s no structural damage, except to the porch. We’ve roped off the front porch and lawn. Forensics needs to comb the grass. Stay off the lawn and use a different door.”
Lance and Morgan left the Jeep at the end of the street and walked back to the office. They stood on the sidewalk and stared at the gaping hole in the front porch.
“And how is this tied to Olivia’s disappearance?” The afternoon waned, and the shadow of the building fell over Morgan. She shivered. “Is this a warning?”
“I think it’s a good bet that our investigation provoked this attack.” Lance pointed to the blackened porch. “But who did we trigger?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Slow down.” In the passenger seat of the unmarked sedan, Sharp scanned the side of the road. “We should see Joe Franklin’s driveway any second. There it is.”
A break in the forest marked the entrance to the property. Stella turned the vehicle, but a heavy gate barred the way. Two signs hung on the gate: BEWARE OF DOG and NO TRESPASSING. A split rail fence surrounded the property. On the other side of the gate, the driveway curved sharply to the right. The house was not visible.
“Franklin must be a very private man.” Stella lowered the window and pressed the intercom button on a kiosk alongside the driveway. No one answered. She pressed the button again but received no response.
Sharp climbed out of the car.
Stella joined him a moment later. “We can’t go around that gate without a warrant.”
Sharp wished he’d come alone. He’d be over that gate in a heartbeat. “I don’t see how we’re going to get one.”
“We need evidence. We don’t have anything even remotely close to probable cause.”
Sharp walked to both sides of the gate and tried to peer through the woods, but the trees were too thick. With most houses, a cop could walk up to the front door and knock. But the fence and locked gate created an expectation of privacy. They were stuck.
“We’ll have to come back.” Stella turned around.
Sharp hesitated. “We need to talk to Joe Franklin.”
Stella headed for her car door. “I’m sorry, Sharp, but we have to obey the law. This is private property. We cannot enter without a warrant.”
Is Olivia somewhere on the other side of that gate?
Sharp did not miss the intricacies of police procedure. Stella’s hands were tied. As soon as possible, he was coming back without her.
They climbed into the car, and Stella drove to Ronald Alexander’s house. The Olanders’ former foreman lived in a small ranch-style home not far from the dairy farm. The house was basic, no frills but well maintained.
She pulled to the curb alongside the mailbox. They got out of the vehicle and stood on the sidewalk.
The curtain shifted in the window as they approached the front door. Stella knocked, and a haggard-looking woman answered the door. Her gray-streaked hair was scraped away from her face and bound in a tight knot. She wore old jeans and dirty sneakers. Deep frown lines bracketed her mouth, and Sharp doubted the crow’s-feet around her eyes had been caused by too much smiling.
Standing in the doorway, she narrowed suspicious eyes at them. When her gaze settled on Sharp, she clutched the edges of her cardigan sweater together. When she spoke, she directed her question to Stella. “What do you want?”
“Are you Mrs. Ronald Alexander?” Stella asked.
The woman hesitated, then gave them a single small nod.
Stella flashed her badge and introduced herself and Sharp. “We’d like to ask you a few questions about your husband.”
The woman immediately stepped backward and tried to close the door. “No. You’ll have to talk to Ronald.” Her voice and hands trembled. “He ain’t home
right now.”
Sharp put a hand on the door to prevent her from closing it. “Can you tell us where he is?”
“No.” Mrs. Alexander shook her head almost violently. The whites of her eyes shone. She bowed her head and studied the tiles under her feet. “I can’t.”
Her fear was palpable.
“Thank you anyway.” Sharp lowered his hand and inclined his head in understanding. She flushed, almost looking ashamed, but fear overrode any sense of pride she might have. She closed the door, and the dead bolt slid home with a loud click.
Stella and Sharp turned away from the house. As he reached the passenger side of the vehicle, Sharp spotted a middle-aged neighbor rolling her trash can to the curb. The neighbor gave Stella’s sedan a curious look. She didn’t hurry into her house but watched them.
“She looks talkative. Let’s get the neighborhood gossip.” Sharp led the way across the street. “Excuse me, ma’am. I’m looking for Ronald Alexander.”
“Better you than me.” She lined her garbage can up with the curb. “Ronald is one miserable SOB.”
“Is that so?” Sharp asked.
The neighbor frowned at the Alexander house.
Sharp offered her a business card and introduced Stella as his associate.
“I’m Iris.” The neighbor inclined her head toward the house. “I don’t suppose she told you anything. I’m surprised she even answered the door.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “I don’t think he lets her out of the house by herself.”
Sharp frowned in disapproval but didn’t comment. Iris was on a roll, and he didn’t want to interrupt.
“It wouldn’t surprise me if he beats her.” She shook her head. “He’s the type.”
“Type?” Sharp prompted.
“He thinks all women should be subservient to men. Every time he sees my husband—which is rare because Fred can’t stand him—he tells him that a woman belongs in the home, and that he should teach me to stay in my place.” She barked out a laugh. “That is so not Fred. Ronald would be funny if he wasn’t so scary.”
“Scary how?” Stella asked.
Save Your Breath Page 15
